The Effects of Falling (The Weight of Rain Duet Book 2) (11 page)

His teeth disappear behind his rounded lips though he’s still smiling, and then his tongue flashes out, wetting and further pronouncing the curvature of his mouth. “You saved my ass. You saved my
mind
.” He closes the gap between us with a purposeful stride.

Kash’s chin falls forward, and I can smell his aftershave and soap along with traces of his cologne, the same one he’s worn for years. Goose bumps run down my back and over my arms as I feel the heat emanating from his broad shoulders that seem higher with us standing chest-to-chest. I want to touch him. I want
him
to touch
me
. My hips and chest are both threatening to push forward and lean on him like I’ve done dozens of times before in the past. But this isn’t the past. Something feels so different, so altered, that I am equally exhilarated and terrified as I try to recognize what it might be.

“Summer…” His deep voice is a whisper that coats my mind with the sound of my name on his lips, where it will forever be stored along with the memory of the way his eyes are looking at me now—wide and focused, intense and bright. “If I kiss you, are you going to punch me?” Kash swallows. The corners of his mouth turn up into a smile though his stare shows no trace of humor. He’s completely serious.

I am tempted to chug my beer, so I can relax and come up with a fun and playful response.

I am tempted to drop my beer, so it doesn’t alter a single recollection of this moment, this night.

I am tempted to ask him to repeat himself, so I can pay closer attention to every minute detail, allowing me to remember everything that is transitioning between us.

Kash pulls the beer from my loosened fingers, and leans even closer so he can set it on the table behind me. I am invaded by everything that is Kash—from his scent that I can now taste in the back of my throat, like a fine wine, to the increasing pressure of his chest against mine as he takes measured breaths while mine feel erratic and too frequent.

I only see him.

I only smell him.

I only hear him.

His brown eyes are still stretched as they stay focused on mine, watching me so carefully, as he leans forward and crosses the few remaining inches that separate us. My eyes close after seeing his lashes curl against his cheeks, and then his perfectly rounded lips gently move against mine, warm and soft, shockingly sweet and gentle.

And after nearly eleven years, I only taste him.

The little contact shared between us is our mouths and chests. I need to feel him under my fingertips so I can memorize the way he feels
in this setting—not as my friend, or confidant, or teammate. I want to remember him wanting me so badly that he isn’t the smooth and confident man he is in every other situation. I love it. I love that I have this effect over him.

My hands rise to his sides where I clutch his shirt, and then I slowly spread them around to his back where I feel every groove and contour, muscles and bones, rough wool, and the heat of him. My fingers grip tighter, pushing into his flesh.

Kash groans his approval, or maybe it’s his attempt to also let go. To release all these years of attraction and finally act upon them. He swipes lightly along my bottom lip, his tongue hot and languid though purposeful, has me sinking even further
into his chest. My lips part, but for the life of me, I can’t recall having done this before.

Everything about this—about Kash—feels different. This isn’t just a kiss, a hot make-out session with an even hotter guy. This is
my
guy, my best friend, the person I described as perfection after meeting him and realizing exactly what that word meant.

His tongue feels hotter against my own than it did against my lips. I taste the faint residue of beer lingering on his breath, and suddenly, Kash’s favorite beer is now also mine. I release his shirt and move my hands back over his chest and shoulders where I slide one up the back of his neck and into his hair, and with the other I grasp a new handful of plaid as his tongue strokes against mine.

Every breath smells of Kash. Every sound is of my heart exploding inside of my chest. Every image playing in my mind is of us, finally together.

Kash pulls away, and I don’t care about what might change between us, what I will lose if things end badly. I want this to happen more than I can recall wanting to get better after my accident that had ended everything for me. That’s how badly I need him.

“Don’t stop,” I plead, my voice raspy and short from our kiss.

“I won’t. Ever.”

He takes my hand, and my belly fills with butterflies. I know he’s taking me to his bedroom, a place I’ve been numerous times but have rarely lingered. It’s his sanctuary. One that holds a very large California king-size bed and a white down comforter that invites you to crawl underneath and get lost for days.

And that’s exactly what I want right now. I want to get lost for days with Kashton Knight.

M
Y NERVES MAKE
Kash’s room feel cooler, and I work really hard not to focus on that as he closes the door behind me. Then, as quickly as I felt the coldness, I feel the heat of Kash at my back, his lips parting as they glide down my neck, his tongue flicking the sensitive skin, tickling me in the most tantalizing fashion. Before I can think that I want him to stop because I’m going to start giggling, I think I might moan in pure ecstasy and beg him to never stop. I choose to stretch my neck to the side and pray it won’t end.

Kash breaks my sole focus from my neck by placing
each of his palms on my clavicles, bones I know intimately because I’ve fractured my left twice and my right once, causing a great dislike for any contact to the area, even from a backpack or purse. Kash’s fingers are light though, loving, as they slide along the slender bones that have betrayed me. His pressure increases as he lowers his hands to the tops of my breasts. As he glides them over the tops, he groans and takes another step closer to me, so that I feel him flush against my back.

His hands drop to where mine are working to unbutton my jeans. I wish I’d worn a pair that would have slid off a little easier than these that are unintentionally dragging my underwear along with them as I try to kick them free. Then, Kash’s hands are on the hem of my sweatshirt. His moves are smooth as he rubs his hands down along my sides, and then lifts the mass of layers I’m wearing. Unfortunately, my shirts—like my pants—do not come off easily in one clean swoop. Instead, my sweatshirt is stuck with my long-sleeved shirt around my head and the camisole I’m wearing under both is still slung around one shoulder while trying to join the rest.

He laughs, and it’s not a breezy, light laugh. No, judging by how hard he’s breathing, I’m pretty sure he’s buckled over at the waist
. Managing to get free, I toss all offending articles to the floor with a smile firmly in place, and Kash’s laughter ceases as we stand face to face. His eyes move over me, beginning at my feet. I stand unabashedly, allowing him to take as long as he wants to scan me into his memory. The nerves I was experiencing are gone, farther than Florida at this point. I want him to see me like this every time his eyes close.

Kash’s focus moves to my chest, and I briefly wonder if he knows they’re fake. It’s one of the very few things we’ve never discussed, maybe the only. It’s not that I’m ashamed or embarrassed about them. It was a decision I made for myself though it had originally been planted by my mom. She had her own expensive silicone chest that boasted bras she had to special order because they were nearly impossible to find in stores. I imagine women born with that large of a chest probably loathe the fact that they have to order bras and struggle with finding bathing suits and dresses that fit, but that equaled success in my mother’s eyes. I chose to get them because I was naturally flatter than a board, my nipples essentially being the only definition on my chest. They’re not large, a small handful each, but they made me feel beautiful, and whether that’s wrong or right, I don’t care to speculate. It was my decision for me; therefore, I feel it’s only my business.

Kash doesn’t weigh them in his hands or measure them—like, I now realize, other men have done. He simply strokes them with reverence, seemingly appreciating every detail.

Eventually, Kash looks up at me. His brown eyes are still wide, darker here with the lack of overhead lights, and without a passing word, I can sense he too knows how right this moment is.

I kiss him. I kiss him for lost time and lost excuses. I kiss him for not acting on things sooner and because I am absolutely lost in the way he’s just worshipped my body with barely a touch.

Sliding his hands into my hair, he holds me steady as he begins to take over the kiss, his lips rubbing against mine with added pressure, nipping my bottom lip and then my top. I feel as though he’s trying to do everything he’s ever done and then everything he hasn’t, so we can share it all.

When he slips his hands free, I take the opportunity to shed his layers, working my way down his plaid shirt and freeing each pearlescent button to expose a white V-neck T-shirt. I almost want to leave it on him so I can admire the way his arms flex under the tight fitting sleeves.
Almost
doesn’t account for anything tonight though, and I quickly remove it also. My hands sweep over his broad shoulders, rounded from all of his upper body strength attributed to hours of riding, and move down his biceps to his forearms, one of the sexiest parts of Kash that so few admire enough. They’re wide, corded with muscles and veins that make me think of obscene things with nearly every appearance. Obscene things that I plan on doing again and again tonight.

Freeing Kash’s jeans is simple once I manage to pull the black leather belt free from the loops. The weight of his keys and wallet help his jeans slide down even easier to where they land around his ankles.

And, for the first time, I see Kashton Knight in the nude, and he wants me. The knowledge sends a thrill of excitement down my spine, boosting my confidence and warming each of my muscles.

I wrap an arm around Kash, our stare remaining level, as I move so that our bare chests touch, and then a switch is flipped. Our hands are reaching, grabbing, holding, pulling, kneading, and stroking while our lips, tongues, and teeth do the same. It’s like we can’t breathe without the contact. Like our lives are going to end and we won’t have enough time. It serves as the best foreplay I’ve ever experienced because there’s nothing I want but Kash inside of me, and as soon as I make the demand, he enters without a single hesitation, sending me out into orbit with the amount of pleasure he creates. I sit up just enough that I don’t have to shift my lower body, but enough that I can see as he enters me because this is something I want to be able to recall nearly as badly as the sensation he’s building inside me.

I
LIE IN
Kash’s bed, completely sated. My muscles are limp and occasionally still twitching—I feel amazing. It’s a shame alcohol can’t make you feel like this, or brownies. French fries come a little closer, especially when accompanied by really cold ketchup—but the only thing that can even come close to what I feel now is those seconds that followed when my bike left a solid surface, and I soared into the air with gravity on my heels and my dreams extending farther than I could have ever imagined. Back when I thought being in X Games and being personally invited to competitions or the Olympic tryouts, and the possibility of having my face on cereal boxes and school lunchboxes and the occasional video game meant the world to me. Those were the days before I met Kash and knew those dreams were simple in comparison to being loved by someone as great as him.

For a long time, I thought the man I would fall in love with would dress in a suit and work long days, drink scotch, buy me expensive purses and more expensive jewelry, and would take me out to extravagant parties and dinners where he would have to wear a jacket and I, a fancy dress. Learning to ride taught me that I wanted more than that for myself. I wanted a career, I wanted the adrenaline, and I really didn’t want to discuss politics and the weather with others who wore similarly styled dresses and coifed hair.

Then, I met Kash, and I learned that the perfect man actually wears plaid—a lot of plaid—and has a daughter whom he loves more than life itself. Even if he didn’t have a passion for riding or money in the bank, a suit and tie with the prerequisite of not working with his family and friends every day would have been hell for him. And I know that, even if he only had an apartment and an old truck, I would still love him and choose to do so because he is the best kind of person there is.